Molly Hooper Counts To Everyone But Herself
by hiddlesbatchedcookie
Summary: Molly is kidnapped and under the impression that she still means almost nothing to her Consulting Detective. Sherlolly with a little Molliarty thrown in.
1. Chapter 1

That night, just like so many others, I woke up in a cold sweat, shaking as tears ran down my cheeks. I had seen it so many times in my nightmares, Sherlock, arms outstretched, like he was flying. Then he was hitting the ground with an awful thud that hurt my heart to hear. Blood smeared across his pale face, matted in his curls. I knew it wasn t real, I knew he was alive. He had asked me to help him create the one thing I never wanted to see happen, and I had done everything I could without a second thought. I knew that he wasn t really dead. But the image of him, lying so broken and defeated still haunted me.

I threw back my duvet and padded through the living room to the bathroom, my legs and arms slightly chilled in the cool night air. Not real, I thought to myself as I splashed cold water on my face and neck. Refreshed, I stared at my reflection in the small mirror hung above the sink.

"Stop it. You know he's fine. He's Sherlock. He's always fine." I tell myself, glaring at the mirror with unnecessary intensity. I turned off the tap and patted my face dry, then went to the kitchen for a glass of water before going back to my room to try and get in another hour of sleep before I have to get up for work.

…

An hour of unsuccessfully trying to get back to sleep later, I hit the dismiss button as my alarm clock beeped at me. I showered slowly, letting the hot water work loose the knots in my neck from my stressed night. Twenty minutes later, dresses and sipping my morning coffee, I felt like laughing at myself. I had sat up for an hour last night after my nightmare, just thinking over and over that there was something more I could have done to help him, though I had done everything he had asked. What had happened, happened, it was done, and yet still I couldn't let go of this idea that I hadn't done enough. I drained the last dregs of tea from my mug and grabbed my bag, shaking my head at my own silliness as I left for St Bart's.

It was a slow day in the morgue, no new bodies, so I filled my time with paperwork. My chin rested on my left hand, the same position I had held for the past three hours, and my eyes began to drift shut, and I let the pen I was holding slip from my hand as I nodded off.

My eyes snapped open as the clink of mugs being set on the desk reminded me of where I was. Shit. I just got caught sleeping at my desk. I sat bolt upright and smoothed my hair and clothes, trying to look presentable for whatever unexpected guest had just materialised in my lab. Looking around, I glimpsed the back of a blonde male in a white lab coat leaving the room. I sighed at myself when I noticed the mug of coffee sat on the polished desk, a post-it stuck to the china that read 'Just thought you might like a little pick me up!' I stuck the note to the edge of my desk and sipped at the hot coffee. I tasted milk and two sugars, just as I liked it. I drained the mug and refocused my eyes on the stack of papers on my desk. Reaching out to take up my pen, I noticed the time on my watch and almost laughed out loud. I had slept for an hour, and I had five minutes before my shift ended. I stacked up the files on my desk and grabbed my bag, flicking off the light switch as I left my lab.  
Outside St Bart's I began to feel a headache coming on, and I felt a bit queasy, so I waved at a cab, rather than walking the twenty minutes to my flat. Inside the cab, my head began to spin and my legs tingled and went numb. I pulled out my phone, thinking of calling John for some advice, but as my thumb hovered over the screen, ready to tap his name, I hesitated. Sherlock would ask why I had called, and think me silly for calling John when I just had a bad headache. My thumb hung in the air above John's name on my phone as I looked out of the window, just in time to see the cabbie pass my flat.

"Hey, mate, you just missed it, it's that big one we just passed." I leaned forward and tapped on the glass. The cabbie turned around in his seat and I nearly had a heart attack. Moriarty grinned evilly at me through the thick glass, then pressed down on the gas pedal and we sped away from my home. Panicking, with my head ready to split from the ache, and a general numbness beginning to take over my body, I slid the glass pane in front of me shut so Moriarty couldn't hear what I was doing, and pressed the name that my thumb had hesitated on earlier.

John answered on the third ring, and I could have cried, I was so glad he had picked up the phone. His voice was heavy and tired, but I heard the jolt of energy that made his voice alert when I started speaking.

"Hey, Molly."

"John, quickly, just listen. I'm in trouble, I didn't know who to call. He found me. I'm in a cab, I don't know where I'm going, but my legs are going numb and I can't get away."

"What! Sherlock! Molly, who found you? Are you hurt now? Sherlock, Molly is in trouble. Can you see where you're heading now, Molly?" John spoke in a rush, and the words hurt my head. I groaned as I heard more of John's frantic voice on the line, talking to someone else. There was a rustle , and then a deep, velvet soft voice spoke calmly and quickly in my ear.

"Molly?"

"Sherlock," I whispered, fear sinking in as my throat went dry and I lost the feeling in my hands. The fingers holding the phone went slack, and I slumped down onto the seat, the phone beneath my ear.

"Sherlock, I can't move. Oh, God, I can't move." I whispered again, and the cab took a hard left on our way to who-knows-where.

"Molly, listen to me. Focus on my voice. Now tell me, are you hurt?"

"No, but I think that blonde technician drugged my coffee." My words began to slur a little.

"Good. Can you see where you're going?" He asked, no trace of fear in his voice, but he obviously detected the terror in my reply.

"No, I can't sit up. Sherlock, I'm scared. Is he going to hurt me? Is Moriaty going to come after you now?" The thought of any curly hair on his head coming to any kind of harm sent another wave of pain through my skull, and I whimpered into the phone's mouthpiece.

"Trust you to be worrying about the wrong things at a time like this. Okay, Molly, I need you to stay strong for me. I can't stop him from taking you, but I can do everything in my power to find you and bring you back safe. Yes, he is going to hurt you, but I need you to find a way of not surrendering to him. I swear that John and I will find you, Molly. Is there anything you can tell me now? Who was the blonde technician? Did you recognise him?" I whimpered at his words and began to cry into the cab seat cushion, but at the mention of the coffee bringer of earlier this evening, I forced myself to refocus.

"Blonde, short hair slicked back. About 6 foot 4. Male. Quite fit, but not overly muscly. I didn't recognise him, so he's either new or an impostor. Pink sticky note with what might be his handwriting stuck to my desk. I'm sorry Sherlock, I don't remember anything else." I said, trying to keep my voice level and hide the building panic inside me.

Sherlock was repeating the details to John while the car squealed to a stop in a location unknown to me. I heard the door slam and took my last few seconds to shout into the phone.

"Sherlock! He's coming! Help me, please help me! I love you, Sherlock! I love you, please save me! I love y- AAAAHHH!" Rough hands wrenched open the door and struck my cheek, stealing my phone. I looked up at Moriarty as he listened to Sherlock and John's frantic shouts down the phone. I closed my eyes against the pain in my cheek and cried into the cab seat as I listened to Moriarty addressing my friends.

"Well, well. Hi there, sorry for borrowing your pathologist. I was a bit bored, see, and you seem to enjoy the company of a live-in ordinary person, so you know, I pinched this one." He smirked, and pinched my stinging cheek. My whole head was spinning from the slap, and I flinched away from his touch.

"Oh, we can't have that. You're going to live with me now, we need to get along," He crooned in my ear. Putting the phone next to my mouth, he struck my face again, and I cried out, listening to the furious stream of shouts and threats pouring out of the phone from John. I yelped at the next four hits to my cheek, and felt my skin open as it connected with a metal ring Moriarty wore. Blood trickled down into my mouth, and I spat the red liquid into the face of my kidnapper, earning a full-force punch to the stomach. Winded, I ended my resistance.

With the phone still next to my head, I could hear Sherlock's voice, pleading with me to stay strong. I laughed to myself.

"Oooh, do tell me the joke!" Moriarty chuckled. In truth, I was laughing because Sherlock Holmes was pleading. Sherlock, who only had to smile at me to have me working overnight on a case, was begging me not to break under Moriarty. But of course, I would never admit that to any of the three men that would hear my voice, so instead, I muttered my reply to Moriarty.

"You made a mistake." I groaned as new waves of pain and nausea shook my body. Moriarty frowned, momentarily taken aback. At John and Sherlock's end, silence had broken through the threats, and I could feel them waiting for me to explain. So I did.

"And what was my mistake, Molly Hooper?" purred Moriarty. I gave him a sarcastic grin and rolled my eyes, infuriating him.

"You obviously took me to piss Sherlock here off. You took his friend and hurt this friend to make him angry enough to come chase you, play your little game. Am I wrong?" I purred back, my voice rasping in my throat.

"That's just stating a fact, honey, you didn't tell me my mistake yet." Moriarty replied, his voice dangerously soft.

"Your mistake was me. You chose the one person in Sherlock's life that means nothing to him. To him, I'm just the conveniently manipulable pathologist that just happens to work at St Bart's. You didn't take and hurt his friend. You took his acquaintance and slapped her, hardly enough to entice him into your little game. I'm nothing to him. I don't count." I mumbled, trying to keep a scornful tone of voice, to show him that I was disappointed in him for being so laughably misinformed about me.

"Through the phone, I heard John disagree with me, tell Sherlock to tell me I was his friend, that he would find me, save me, bring me home. But Sherlock didn't say a word, and I let the tears flow down my face, knowing that what I had said was right.  
Moriarty grinned at my tears and took back the phone, chuckling into it.

"She's crying now, Sherlock. Don't you care? Don't you want to help your conveniently manipulable pathologist? Oh, shush, John, this game is for grown ups." He grinned to himself as the sound of John's raging reply reached my ears. I sobbed, and Moriarty glanced down at my now limp form.

"You know he doesn't care for you. You know he will abandon you. His odd little world of mysteries and crimes will go on turning without you. He knows it, too. He knows that he doesn't care, so I don't think he'll care for your last words, but it seems only fair for you to leave a little something behind. Go ahead, say goodbye to your acquaintance." He held the phone to my ear, and I gulped as I heard Sherlock murmur into the phone.

"Molly, what are you doing? He'll kill you, if he can't use you to get to me. You shouldn't have said that, you know it's not… Molly, please don't let him break you. Don't surrender to him. You're more than my acquaintance, you know that." The words tumbled out in a hurry, like he didn't know how to string the sentences together properly. I took a breath and told him everything I could before I dissolved into teas.

"Sherlock, don't lie to me because I'm in trouble. I don't count, I'm nothing, always have been. Don't deny it; I have seen you lie enough times to know when you're doing it." I heard Sherlock take in a sharp breath, like I had stung him. I said the words briskly, trying to sound like they didn't shatter my heat as I said them. Forcing myself to continue, to make the most of this last opportunity to talk to my friends, I spoke quietly into the phone.  
"John, keep an eye on Toby for me, and if I don't come home, please find him a nice home. Keep yourselves safe, for me, would you? I won't forgive you for dying because of me or Moriarty." I fumbled for words, now focussing on the last thing I would ever say to the sociopath that held my heart.  
"I love you Sherlock. Please don't try to find me, just stay safe. I'll be fine. Or dead. One way or the other, you know. Give John my love and tell my mum why I won't be over for dinner next Thursday. I'm sorry I wasn't smart enough to avoid this, and I'm sorry I called John. I love you Sherlock Holmes, and I want you to remember me. Please remember me. Goodbye, Mr Holmes."

Moriarty smirked to himself as he pulled away the phone. I listened to the shouted denials John aimed at the phone, closing my eyes and blocking out the desperate sound. The evil man that stood above me stooped and laid my phone on the ground, and I heard John go quiet as Sherlock spoke. His voice was unsteady, almost afraid now.

"Molly, I-"

I never heard what Sherlock said. Moriarty's foot crunched my phone into the gravel and the connection was lost.


	2. Chapter 2

I groaned into a surprisingly soft pillow as I regained consciousness. Silently, I let a moment of panic take over as I remembered the events of last night. I tried to move my hand to rub the sleep from my eyes, and found it handcuffed tightly to the headboard of what now appeared to be a large bed. I wiggled my other hand, and found that I was chained by both wrists to the headboard.

I tried to sit up and take in my surroundings, but an awful pain shot through my skull and I collapsed back onto my pillow. A thin blanket was draped over me, and when I kicked it back, my jaw dropped. I was wearing black lingerie and a man's white shirt that just reached my thighs, and not even the underwear belonged to me. Suddenly I was hyperventilating. Who had taken my clothes? Why? Where was that person now? Where was Moriarty now?

As if on cue, a cheery whistle sounded on the other side of the door to my room. I heard the clicking of a lock and he swung open the door, letting it bang loudly against the wall, reigniting my burning headache. I flinched, and struggled to get further up the bed, until my back rested against the headboard and my legs were scrunched into my chest, making me as small as I could be with my arms held out to my sides. My left ankle hurt, but I paid it no notice. I kept my head down; not wanting to see the smug grin that I knew would be spread across his face. As Moriarty crossed the room, I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out his presence. The mattress dipped as he sat down, and I flinched again. Moriarty chuckled and reached for me, his hand brushing through my hair. I whipped my head up and glared at him, and he removed his hand. He frowned at me like a teacher frowning at a misbehaving student, and I lowered my gaze. I was too tired and too hungry and too weak to fight. My head was still spinning and I groaned as my headache pounded in my skull.

Finding the courage to speak, I forced my voice to be steady and quiet when I addressed my kidnapper.

"Where are my clothes?" I asked, trying to ignore the underlying question of who removed them. Moriarty purred a low response.

"I couldn't let you sleep in that awful outfit, now could I? I just swapped what you were wearing for something a little more… Pleasing." He grinned, and I flushed scarlet, trying not to imagine Moriarty seeing me unclothed. His hand crept toward me again, and I tried to shuffle away. His hand caught my ankle in a tight grip, pulling my leg out from under me. I winced as he gripped my legs, surprised at the pain I felt. Unbalanced, my other legs slid out from beneath me, and I slumped to sitting on the pillow my head had rested on minutes before. Jim still gripped my ankle, where I could see mottled purple-black bruises under his fingers.

Following my gaze, Moriarty frowned and let go of my ankle, placing it and my other foot carefully on his legs, though he stared at me to tell me not to move them from where he had lain them on his lap.

"Sorry about your leg, Molly. Once you had passed out in the cab, I had my friend carry you up here. The idiot got your foot jammed in the car door and broke your ankle. We gave you something for the pain." He looked to be genuinely angry at his associate for adding to my list of injuries. I shuddered and hissed in pain as he leaned down to grab something from the floor, jarring my ankle. He straightened back up, a first aid kit in hand, and gently patted my good foot, almost sympathetically.

I tired to pull away as he took out a syringe from the box, but he caught my feet in his strong hands and pulled me further down the bed, placing them more centrally on his lap. He set the syringe down on the bed and continued rummaging in the box, finally pulling out bandages and a safety pin. He probed the flesh of my bruised foot, drawing out small gasps of pain as he reached the break. He nodded to himself, and began carefully wrapping the bandages around my foot. I groaned as he wrapped it tight, stopping any movement of the ankle, setting my foot in the right position to heal. He pinned the bandage and moved my legs off of his lap, setting the injured one down gently on the bed.  
My head lay back on the pillow where it had started as a result of Moriarty's earlier tug, and he moved to my sit level with my head. I lay there, straining against the cuffs at my wrists as he bent and kissed my cheek. I turned my face quickly away, blushing pink. He chuckled and loosed my hand from the cuff closest to him, then he straddled my hips to climb over me and unlock my other hand. Both of my hands were pale and shook from lack of blood, and when I tried to use them to push myself up, they felt just as wobbly and useless as jelly. Moriarty sat by and watched me struggle from where he sat for a moment, before hoisting me into a sit and propping up a pillow behind me. He reached behind him to the table on the other side of the bed and produced a glass of water, offering it to me. I narrowed my eyes but took the glass in my shaking hands, sniffing the liquid.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked, with only a slight shake in my voice. Jim chuckled. He reached over and took the water from me, taking a deliberate gulp and handing it back. I sipped it slowly. It probably wasn't drugged if he drank it himself. Suddenly my thirst hit me and I downed the glass, relishing in the feeling of the cool liquid soothing my dry throat. He smiled, happy to see me drinking.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked again, clearer this time.

"I want you alive." He said, simply, like it was obvious. He took the glass from me and set it back on the table.

"But why do you need me alive? I mean nothing to Sherlock, I'm of no use to you." I mumbled, hating the words I was certain were true.

"Maybe so, but still, it can't be all bad having another person here, even if you are remarkably normal. Plus, there are certain enjoyable aspects of having a woman around." He reflected in an amused tone.

"Why me? I'm nothing special." I said softly as I shivered, and drew my legs carefully into my chest, hugging my knees.

"On the contrary, you were special enough to make the world believe that your friend was dead. You're more important than you think, Molly Hooper, as I believe I have told you before." He grinned at my little intake of breath as I remembered. He was right; he had told me that before. In our brief time of dating¸ I had shown up to dinner in a miserable mood, Sherlock having just insulted me with thoughtless deductions about my appearance. I had complained to Jim-from-IT that I felt so useless and ordinary around Sherlock.

"You're more important than you think Molly. To Sherlock Holmes, and to me. I think you're very important. Don't let that ass make you feel otherwise." I remembered feeling so glad that Jim was there to reassure me that I wasn't completely pointless. Now I felt only resentfulness and growing anxiety over Moriarty's plans for me.

"I'm not important," I said again, almost defiantly.

"I'm nothing, to Sherlock and to you. Not important." I repeated, and he shook his head in discontent. He crawled closer to me on the huge bed, bringing his face inches away from mine. I could smell his warm, minty breath as it hit my cheeks, and his clean, spicy scent. I felt my cheeks redden, and directed my gaze down at my hands as I fiddled with the hem of the shirt I wore. Moriarty straddled my legs, one of his legs on either side of my thighs. He spoke with an oddly soft voice, tilting my chin up so I looked at his dark eyes.

"I brought you here because you are, in fact, important to both Mr Holmes and to me. Surely that much was obvious from the fact that I didn't kill you when Sherlock proved you right in what you said on the phone. I want you here, and healthy, Molly, for my own reasons, and I intend to make sure that you stay here, and once you have recovered, that you stay healthy." Moriarty ran a soft hand up my thigh, and I batted his hand away instinctively. He gripped my wrist, bringing it to his face and breathing in my scent, and then he ran his tongue over the spot where my pulse beat against my skin. I yanked my wrist from his grasp and he captured my disgusted face between his two hands without missing a beat. I pushed ineffectually at his strong chest, trying to make him let go, but he barely even registered my shoves as he licked his soft-looking lips, staring intently at my face, watching my expression change from straining to push him away to realization as I noticed his gaze shift to my lips.

"N-" I began, only to be silenced by his mouth crushing mine, devouring my lips. He took advantage of my open, protesting mouth and slipped his tongue past my lips to flick against my own tongue. Shocked, I didn't have the sense to bite or slap him, but instead I found my lips moving with his, my tongue dancing in and out of his mouth. Jim lowered my head onto the pillow and deepened the kiss, bracing himself above me with one hand on the pillow either side of my head. I squealed as I came back to my wits and clocked who it was that I was kissing. I put both hands on his shoulders and pushed, not enough to remove him from over me, but enough to break the kiss. His face hovered just above mine, a frown creasing his forehead as he recognized that he could not win me over into compliance with one (very pleasurable) kiss. He got up and off the bed, leaving me laying on the oversized mattress. Moriarty strode to the door, turned around and gestured to a wardrobe on the wall opposite the bed.

"There are clothes in there, if you want to change out of my shirt." He smirked, then left, locking the door behind him.

My shirt. As quickly as I could on my bandaged leg, I hobbled over to the wardrobe and flung open the doors, only to groan at the assortment of lingerie and exceptionally revealing dresses that hung in neat rows. I rooted through the drawers at the bottom of the wardrobe until I found a pair of denim shorts that came halfway down my slim thighs, and an unusually low-cut tee. I slipped them on, but when I saw how much of myself was shown in just the tee, so I reluctantly slipped the white shirt back on over the top, buttoning it to hide some of the skin that remained uncovered without.

I sighed and hopped back over to the bed, slumping down and assessing my injuries. A cut on my cheek from Moriarty's ring, broken ankle, bruised wrists with some cuts from the tight cuffs, generally bruised all over.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock paced the living room of 221b Baker Street for three hours, muttering to himself. He tried to focus on the background noise of  
his phone call with Molly, to find anything that could give him a clue as to where she was, but her face kept cropping up in his  
thoughts. He imagined her, slumped on the backseat of a cab crying out into the phone as that bastard hit her. He saw her whimpering at  
the thought of Moriarty coming after him. He saw her face streaked with tears as she told him what she truly believed he thought about  
her. He saw her crumple in pain when Moriarty landed a forceful, winding blow to her stomach.

Sherlock felt sick. Molly's falsely calm voice echoed in his ear, telling him not to bother trying to find her, to just let her be taken  
because she didn't want him in danger. Sherlock's hands tightened into fists as he heard Moriarty chuckling in the background as he  
listened to the fear in his pathologist's voice, enjoying her anguish. Shaking his head, Sherlock tried to push Molly from his thoughts.  
Fixating on her voice would do nothing to find her. He refocused, playing back the call in his mind. nothing helpful, just the sounds of  
traffic rushing past, a bin lorry emptying plastic wheelie bins, Molly trying to control her tears.

Nothing. He had nothing to go on.

No, that wasn't true. He was letting his worry for his pathologist's safety interfere with his thinking. Frowning, Sherlock sifted again  
through the noises of the call. He mapped out her evening in his head. Molly would have commented as soon as she saw they had passed her  
home, at which point Moriarty would have revealed himself and she would have called John. Their call was roughly twenty five minutes,  
making it around fifteen up to the point of their conversation when the car stopped and Moriarty took the phone. With the traffic through  
London at that time, they couldn't have been travelling more than thirty miles per hour. Okay so that gave him a rough ten mile radius  
from Molly's flat that they could have driven to. Not enough. He needed to know where she was. Sherlock felt responsible for Molly's  
kidnapping; without him, Moriarty would have had no need to take her to get to him.

Frustrated, Sherlock threw himself down onto his chair and pressed his fingers to his temples, screwing his eyes shut and replaying the  
background noise again. The traffic noises were not helpful, that same sound was all over London. Molly's crying was… Motivating – the  
responsibility he felt had driven him to pace for three hours – but unhelpful as far as working out her location was concerned. Nothing  
else, just the metallic clunking and dull thudding of a bin lorry emptying the contents of two – no, three – plastic wheelie bins.  
Sherlock let out a frustrated cry and smacked his fists onto the arms of the chair.

Immediately, Sherlock scolded himself for letting his frustration distract him. He had to be missing something, some small detail. He  
pulled out his phone and stared at it, knowing that he had no new messages, but hoping that Molly would somehow contact him, just to let  
him know that Moriarty hadn't yet agreed with Molly that she was of no use to him.

Traffic. Molly. Bin lorry. Traffic. Molly. Bin lorry. Traffic. Molly. Bin lorry.

Bin lorry!

Pulling out his phone, Sherlock fired off a text.

How many are with you this week? –SH

He set his phone down on the am of the chair and steepled his fingers, pressing them to his lips in thought. His phone beeped.

7, is there something I can do for you, Sir?

Sherlock's mouth curled up in a faint smile. He liked being called 'Sir'. Well, it was at least better than being called 'Freak'. He  
tapped out a reply.

I need your help. Meet me at the usual spot at 3. – SH

I'll be there. Don't suppose you'll tell me why you need my help?

Not over the phone. – SH

Sherlock dropped his phone back into his pocket and glanced at his watch. 2:30. He grabbed his coat and pulled it on, tying his blue  
scarf around his slim throat as he headed out of 221B.

Half an hour later, Sherlock leant against a weather-beaten oak tree in a crowded park, mobile in one hand, a cardboard holder with two  
steaming to-go cups of tea in the other. The gadget buzzed, vibrating in his hand, and he clicked on the message.

She talks in her sleep. How very amusing. – M

You won't touch her. Sherlock didn't bother with his initials at the end of his reply. Moriarty knew who he was texting.

Oh won't I? – M

No. You won't.

Sherlock frowned at the few words that appeared on the screen, gripping the phone unnecessarily tightly. The idea or Moriarty seeing  
Molly as defenceless and unaware as she would be in sleep was repellent to him. Moriarty could see her, wherever she was, while she was  
totally unguarded against his tricks. Sherlock hated the idea of Molly being anywhere near Moriarty.

A small cough sounded in the branches above him, and he slipped his phone back into his pocket. Without looking up, he greeted the  
newcomer.

'Danni,' he murmured in acknowledgement. A small figure dropped almost silently out of the tree and landed neatly a foot in front of him.  
Sherlock's gaze quickly took in the appearance of his friend.

Danni was fifteen, a runaway from an abusive stepfather. She was a particularly useful member of his homeless network, being skinny and  
unnervingly – though not to Sherlock – quiet, she could simply hide in the dark and listen to whatever he needed her to hear, and her  
only request was that he bring hot tea with milk and two sugars for her when they met. She was also extraordinarily loyal, and Sherlock  
trusted her with a lot of information. She wore an odd combination of clothes Sherlock had bought her when she had been blue with cold  
when they first met in return for her services (a blue beanie hat, a scarf similar to his own, and a grey, fitted coat that hugged  
tightly to her, making it easier for her to creep unseen into places) and the clothes she had originally run away in (ripped black skinny  
jeans, black baseball boots caked in grime and a purple tee that she was beginning to grow out of after 8 months on the street. He noted  
that she had lost a fight two days ago with three boys a year older than her, over a safe spot to sleep. She had slept in the rain, and  
had woken with her (stolen) mittens missing and her fingers numb.

'Sir,' she nodded, her eyes roaming to the disposable cups of tea that steamed in his hand. He held one out to her, and she took it  
carefully, treasuring the heat on her cold hands. She sipped the tea and stared at Sherlock, a slight frown creasing her brow.

'Crikey.' She muttered, taking another sip of tea.

'What?' Sherlock asked, eyebrow rising at her expression.

'You're worried. Nothing worries you.' She murmured, her tone almost admiring him.

'Hm.' Sherlock gave no indication of wanting to discuss the situation, instead turning the conversation to a more important topic.

'You have seven others with you. I need you to run surveillance for me tonight. I need to know which buildings on this line have three  
wheelie bins outside them, and when those bins are emptied. I'm looking for an industrial building, probably a disused one. Text me all  
results you have by tomorrow morning. Also, if any of your friends notice this man going in or out of any of those buildings, text me  
immediately with the address. It's important.' He spoke quickly, pulling a map from his coat's deep pocket and showing a red line that  
drew a circle around Molly's apartment building, and a photo of Moriarty.  
When he had finished speaking, Danni whistled, three short bars, and seven young teens of varying degrees of scruffiness melted from the  
surrounding trees and came toward them, grouping cautiously behind Danni. A two-second glance told Sherlock all he needed to know about  
them while Danni issued them with instructions like an unofficial army general. There were two girls and five boys. Three runaways, like  
Danni, one orphan, two children born on the street. The last boy, Sherlock guessed around fourteen years old, surprised Sherlock. He  
wasn't a runaway or an orphan, and he hadn't long been on the streets. The boy was quiet, and refused to look Sherlock in the eye, and  
Sherlock knew why. The boy had been kicked out of his home two months ago, by someone he was not related to.

Sherlock produced seven disposable mobile phones from the depths of his coat pockets and tossed one to each teen, muttering that each one  
had enough credit for their needs and that his number was programmed into each phone. Each child muttered their thanks for the phones and  
disappeared back into the trees, heading off to the different streets that Danni had sent them to.

Danni stayed a foot away from him, out of accidental bumping range, sipping her tea, savouring it. Sherlock frowned at her, deducing her  
past month of living in more detail. She had lost several fights in the past few weeks. She was thinner, and she was suffering the cold,  
as she had given her warmer clothing to younger kids and her hands were bruised from beating off people who got too close to her sleeping  
spot or to the younger children that depended on her to keep them safe while they slept. Her wary distance told him that she knew he  
would see her bruised hands and arms and deduce that she was fighting again. She had promised him when they met that if he provided her  
with clothes and food every so often, she would try to avoid being arrested so she could stay available to him, and that meant no more  
fighting.

Sherlock sighed and dug in his pocket, pulling out a wad of notes and holding some out to her. Still sipping her tea, Danni stared at the  
money but did not reach out to take it.

'Take it. You've earned it.' Sherlock coaxed her, but she shook her head. Sherlock stepped forward, intending to tuck the money into her  
coat pocket, but she flinched away and stepped back, keeping the distance between them the same. Sherlock held the money out to her  
again, but still she refused it.

'I haven't earned anything yet, Sir. You've already given me tea, that's enough.' She said, draining the cup and tossing it into a nearby  
bin. When she turned back around, Sherlock's hands were back in his pockets. Danni eyed him suspiciously. She hugged her arms as a breeze  
passed over them, and Sherlock frowned again. She would be of no use to him if she became ill because of the cold. Her hands were already  
nearly white from the constant chill.

Danni coughed, quietly and tried to muffle it with her scarf, ignoring his unhappy look. She shook herself and briskly held out her hand  
for him to shake. He took it and they shook, her slim hand in his broad one. Then she grinned and turned to walk silently back into the  
trees, stopping by another old oak and turning on the spot to speak again.

'You can't trick me that easily, Sir.' She giggled, then ran off into the trees. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and looked down at the hand  
he had shaken hers with. Inside it was the small wad of notes he had slipped into her pocket when she had binned her empty cup. Caught  
between irritation at her for giving it back and a small amount of pride at her being aware enough to notice his trick, Sherlock tucked  
the money back into his pocket and left the park, heading to a nearby café to wait for John.


	4. Chapter 4

I slept in snatches, my body clock thrown off by the constant dim light in the room, unable to tell if it was night or day, or how long I had been there. Occasionally Moriarty would appear, always so confusingly considerate and cruel at the same time.

After he had first left me to change my clothes, Moriarty had been gone for hours. When I tried the door, it was locked tight, and with my ear pressed to the wood I could hear at least two men guarding the other side of the door. He had reappeared again some time later with a tray of simple foods that I had initially refused, but he had again taken mouthfuls to prove that I could eat without fear of drugs. Suddenly realizing my hunger – I had been stressed at work and skipped lunch, and I had no idea how long I had been sleeping – I wolfed down the bread and soup he had given me, ignoring the burn on my tongue from the scalding hot soup.

Moriarty watched me carefully as I soaked up the last of the soup with the bread and finished the meal, feeling stronger with something in my stomach. I set the bowl and spoon back down on the tray, and Moriarty snapped his fingers. A small, skinny boy of around twelve scurried in through the door and picked up the tray, never making eye contact with either of us. He hurried away again, closing the door quietly behind him. I watched him go, sympathy filling my chest for the child that Moriarty had employed. I wondered how many other children were scurrying around this building.

Moriarty cleared his throat and I glanced up at him warily. His stare was level and steady, but not dangerous or threatening. He was just… staring. Like Sherlock did sometimes, when I surprised him with a deduction of my own or sarcastic comment that he heard me mutter under my breath. He always thought it odd that I could be sarcastic around him. Mousy Molly, timid little thing. That's who I was to Sherlock. The conveniently manipulable pathologist, I told Moriarty. I knew I had been right.

Moriarty was still looking intently at me, a small frown of thought turning down the corners of his mouth. I looked at him through the curtain of my hair that had fallen over my shoulder, but he caught my gaze. Trying t look unconcerned by him, I flicked back my hair and met his eyes. Moriarty raised an eyebrow, entertained by something, then whipped out his phone and pressed send on a waiting text.

Moments later a knock sounded on the door and Moriarty shouted for whoever it was to come in. The door swung open and two huge, burly men walked in, one holding a pair of crutches. Moriarty stood, and I got up, awkwardly backing away against a wall, intimidated, forgetting my nonchalant cover act. The two men walked toward me at a nod from Moriarty, and came to stand behind me. One handed me the crutches and I tucked them under my arms, just as the other nudged me forward with a hand on my shoulder, and I stumbled into Moriarty, who caught me, propped me up again and placed a hand on the small of my back and pressed me toward the door. We went out of the door to my room and straight down a narrow hallway, to an elevator door at the opposite end to my room. I recoiled as we approached the open metal doors, hating the idea of being in such an enclosed space with these three intimidating men, but Moriarty felt me attempt to pull away and moved his hand to my waist, firmly but deliberately slowly, mindful of my ankle.

'Come on now, Molly. We're only going into the lift; nobody's going to hurt you.' Moriarty reassured me, doing very little to calm my nerves. I resisted a little more, but on crutches I could do little, so I let him lead me into the lift. The two men stepped in after us, but Moriarty waved them away and they stepped quickly out again, taking up positions on either side of the lift. The metal doors slid shut and Moriarty pressed a button, and we began slowly ascending up through the building. Moriarty didn't speak, but whistled a short, pleasant melody as the lift came to a stop. The doors opened and he gestured for me to walk out before him.

I hopped out of the lift with my new crutches and stared around me. I was struck dumb by the bright light of what appeared to be a very luxurious top-floor suite of the building, which when I had glimpsed it outside, appeared to be a disused warehouse. I gazed open-mouthed at the lavish furnishings of the living area; a gigantic corner sofa that could easily have seated twenty, velvety and a pale grey colour, a huge flat screen television that almost encompassed one wall, a blood red rug about two inches thick, soft and fluffy. A gorgeous black grand piano stood in one corner of the room, and I bit my lip, remembering the baby grand back in my flat. Two of the room's walls were lined with overstuffed bookcases that held almost every book I could ever have wanted to read, and I found myself grinning at the sight of the leather-bound treasures covering the walls.

Moriarty stepped up next to me, and my grin faded as he glimpsed it and smirked. He brushed past me and slumped comfortably down onto the sofa, flinging his arms over the low back of it. I shuffled a little further into the room, and Moriarty looked over at me, an almost mocking half-grin on his lips. He stood and walked easily through the room, running a finger along the spines of the books he passed. He circled the room casually, coming to stand behind me. I stood still, trying to keep my balance on the crutches as I tried to figure out why he had brought me here. Was he taunting me? Showing me his life of comfort while I was stuck in that room downstairs? That's what it felt like.

He brought his face close to my ear, leaning from behind me, and whispered in my ear.

'It's nice, don't you think?'

I shrugged.

'Nice enough. Why am I here?' I muttered, beginning to feel irritated and nervous with him so close to me, his unwelcome breath warming my cheek.

'I though you might like a little more space.' Moriarty murmured. 'Do you?'

'This is for me?' I asked, disbelieving. 'Sure.'

'I want you to get used to this place. This is where you'll be staying. Bedroom is through there. No kitchen, food will be brought up, or not, if you misbehave. Bathroom is en suite. Look in the bedroom wardrobe for some new clothes; my shirt is looking a tad wrinkled. You'll have a few hours to yourself now while I go to deal with… something, but I will be back later and I expect a clean and properly dressed woman here when I get back. Do try not to disappoint me, that won't go well for you.' He said lightly, but I felt the weight of his words. He planted a swift kiss on the corner of my mouth before I could duck away, and disappeared back into the lift. I knew it would be pointless to follow, so instead I investigated the rooms, finding a Jacuzzi-sized bath and a walk-in shower in the en-suite, the bedroom having a ridiculously large king-sized bed, four poster, with pale cream curtains that hung down, completely obscuring the view of the silk-dressed bed, so that any person on the bed behind the curtains would be a simple blur. In the wardrobe I found every day clothes, all my size of course, so I pulled on a plain blue vest top, a cosy wool jumper and a pair of comfortable jeans with some fleecy socks that stretched round the bandage still on my foot.

Eventually my arms got tired of supporting me on the crutches, so I made my way to the piano and sat on the stool, propping up the crutches next to me. I lifted the piece covering the keys and rested my fingers on the cool white bars, closing my eyes and focussing on the melodies I knew by memory. I blocked out where I was and why I was there and began playing a sweet, lilting tune that my mother had played to me when I was sad as a child. My fingers flowed over the keys and I played for hours, losing myself in the memories of Mum and the soft music, ignoring the tears that slowly spilled onto my cheeks.


End file.
